


Same Blood

by scorpiod



Category: Sharp Objects (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Menstrual Sex, Non-Consensual Groping, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Underage Aggressor, Underage Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26354518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: Camille and Amma get their periods on the same day.
Relationships: Amma Crellin/Camille Preaker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36
Collections: We Die Like Fen 4: We Lived to Die Afen





	Same Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlingargents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/gifts).



> I could not give you all your freeforms, but I hope you enjoy this little piece of fucked up sistercest <3

It’s a hot day, sweltering smoldering heat, and it drives them both a little crazy. 

Camille had been going a little crazy since she found the teeth. Amma, on the other hand, has been crazy since long before Camille swung back into her life. 

It’s a hot Missouri summer in St. Louis, humid and heavy. Camille wakes up with her underwear red and soaked, the blood already ruining this pair for the day. She wakes up feeling sick and heavy and bloated. Her period makes the air feel stickier, more constricting, collapsing around her and holding her by the throat. 

(since the teeth, she feels like she’s being held by the throat, breathing in toxic fumes, her insides all swollen up with poison)

She groans and forces herself out of bed. She should put something on...a jacket. Shorts. Cover up but lately, it’s getting harder to care. She manages to tug on a bra and a change of underwear, then loosely tie a robe around her body, before inserting a tampon inside her. In the kitchen, Camille makes coffee like she’s hungover—slowly, moving like molasses, with her head throbbing, her guts clenching up. She takes a midol for her cramps, swallowing it down with burnt coffee aftertaste lingering in the back of her throat. 

Since leaving Wind Gap, she decided she’s not going to drink anymore, go sober. Be a good guardian for Amma. Be a good sister. 

Since finding the teeth, drinking is all she can think about. Drinking and cutting ( _ hurting, do you like to hurt, Amma? _ ). 

Taking a knife to her body. Bursting into her skin. Cutting herself open. 

She doesn't do that, because Amma deserves better than that. 

( _ Does she?) _

“Ooh!” Amma squeals in a girlish way, sounding younger than she actually is. Camille jumps and nearly drops her coffee, managing to set it down at the counter. She didn’t realize Amma was right there, standing in the kitchen doorway. Amma is bright eyed, despite being early in the morning, half dressed. She’s wearing Camille’s oversized panda t-shirt, which runs down to mid thigh for Amma, and apparently, nothing else. God, Camille hopes she’s wearing underwear there. 

“Riding the crimson wave, sis?” Amma grins at her.

“Amma,” Camille says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. There’s ways she says Amma’s name that mean different things, but right now her voice is low, drawn out, tired. Camille is not in the mood right now for Amma at peak high energy. 

_ Don’t tell Mama,  _ she said to her, when Camille found the teeth. 

Camille should have turned her in. Instead she walked to the bathroom and stared at the glass mirror for a very long time, knowing how easy it’d be to shatter. Longing for the comforting feel of sharpness against flesh and that stinging burning pain. 

_ Are you mad at me? Do you hate me?  _ Amma asked her that night, curling up against her body on the bed. Camille felt both numb and dreamy and not all here and the only thing she said was,  _ go to sleep, Amma _ as her eyes burned. 

No, she didn’t hate her. 

(she thinks Amma kissed her after that)

Amma slinks up to her next to the kitchen table, peering at her, with sleepy heavy eyes, nose scrunching up. “Are you bleeding this morning, Camille? I can smell it. You’re a little rank.” 

Camille shivers, thinking of her mother’s words,  _ ripe.  _

“What do you want, Amma?” Camille sighs. “I’m not in the mood for games.” 

Oh, Camille should not have said that. She sees Amma’s mood visibly deflate, her smile flatten, features slacken.

“I’m just happy to see you,” she pouts, in her over-affected, baby doll way. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” 

Camille sighs. “I’m not in a good mood,” she says, voice dry as hell, trying to be apologetic, and takes a sip of her coffee. It’s hot enough that it burns her tongue but Camille’s in a mood to enjoy the burn down her throat. “Like you said, crimson wave.”

It’s a joke. It’s a silly way to refer to it but when Camille turns to sit down, Amma shifts and stands in front of her, blocking her path, pushing the chair out of the way. The sun streams in behind Camille, lighting Amma’s features up—her bright blue eyes and her golden hair, making her look more innocent than she actually is. 

Suddenly, Camille’s hair stands on end. She feels cornered, backed into the kitchen table. Amma won’t kill her but there’s a lot of things Amma can do to her. 

Amma leans in, pushing Camille further back until her lower back hits the end of the table. The hard wood against her makes her gasp. 

“Me too,” Amma says, whispered like a secret, even though it was only the two of them here. There’s no secrets, aren’t there? Not between them. Only makes sense Amma would tell her the details of her menstrual cycle. “I’m bleeding right now, sis.”

Softly, like a lover. Voice low and throaty. Camille thinks of drug fueled binges and rollerskating on dead end streets and blood and teeth—

She shudders, and Amma reaches for her, her hand lingering on her wrist. She wraps her delicate ( _ murderous _ ) fingers around it, then slides it up to her forearm. VANISH throbs on her skin. 

“Wanna see?” Amma asks. 

It takes a moment to register what she’s asking. 

“ _ No _ ,” Camille maintains. She feels the flicker of something mean in her belly, like snakes writhing in a nest. “You’re old enough to take care of that yourself.”

Amma still is holding on to her, her painted nails digging into the scar tissue. 

(This is not the first time between them like this; Camille, higher than a kite, lets her sister kiss her in front of all her friends, too out of it to say no; she doesn’t hate it like she thought she would. 

Camille, lying in bed, hallucinating, lets Amma’s hand slide up her skin and trail over her body. She doesn’t hate it; it’s been so long since anyone touched her scars like this.

Camille, not drunk, not high, lets her sister kiss her on the mouth, soft and sweet, sweeter than Amma has any right to be)

Amma lets her go. Camille has no chance for relief; instead, Amma reaches inside her robe, too sudden and shocking for Camille to process, and presses her small palm against Camille’s inner bare thigh. She holds it there, overheated skin on Camille’s already hot body, then slides it up, pushing it into her underwear. It takes a moment to realize she’s being  _ groped _ . 

“Did we sync up?” Amma’s voice is breathy. Excited. “Women who live together often do.”

Camille slaps it away. “Amma,” she warns. “Stop it.” 

“I want to see,” Amma asks, crowding her until they’re skin to skin, breast to breast. Her breath is hot on Camille’s neck. It makes Camille shiver, despite the heat. “I wanna know how alike we are.” 

Camille is burning up, going to lose her mind but she already hasn’t been very sane since the teeth, the dollhouse, like her insides have cracked open. It’s getting hard to find a boundary line. 

“Please let me see, Mille,” she pouts at her, lower lip sticking out.  _ You’re too old for this, Amma, stop acting like a child.  _

But Amma doesn’t act like a child. She acts like a predator.

“I’m not  _ exposing  _ myself to you,” she insists, as if that’s the problem. As if Camille is in the wrong here (she’s supposed to be better than this).

Amma’s fingers press in, pushing her underwear into the bloody folds of her cunt, and that’s another ruined pair, another thing she’ll need to wash soon enough. She’s still slick with blood, despite the tampon and Camille gasps, then whimpers. She’s over exposed and shivers when Amma’s fingers brush up against her clit, hot with the summer heat and shame. 

“Stop,” she says but she can’t move to push Amma away. Can’t bring herself to fight against her little sister.

(Amma needed her friends to murder two small girls; does she need anyone else to hold her down)

Amma’s eyes are wild. “I’m bleeding too,” she whispers. “Do you want to feel? I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything.”

Amma doesn’t wait for a response, running on pure desire and heat-addled madness. She grabs Camille’s hand and brings it to the apex of her legs and  _ oh _ , she is not wearing underwear. She’s not wearing a pad, or a tampon. She has blood on her inner thighs, both dried and wet, blood running down her legs slowly. It conjures up the image in Camille’s mind of Amma with a crown of flowers over her head, back at the dinner table, in just a girlish nightgown, but more wild, free, a feral girl in the woods.

“Amma!” Camille hisses between her teeth. 

Amma’s thighs are more womanly than child; she thinks Amma knows this about herself, because she’s smiling, sharp and sly. Her cunt in her hands feels just like a woman’s, and she’s the kind of sticky wet that comes with fresh blood, fingers slipping against her folds easily. 

There’s something about Amma’s blood on her hands that made Camille’s heart race, quickening in her chest. 

Camille wonders if she’s like her (like her mother). If she likes killing too. She’s only ever hurt herself, but she can’t deny she relishes the sight of blood flowing. The first time she did it, she gasped when she finally drew the razor blade upon herself, then she smiled, and carved the next letter and the next and the next. It was ugly and raw and disgusting and she felt so  _ accomplished  _ for once _.  _

“Amma,” Camille says. Less harsh this time, less fierce. Not sure what to say or do. She can feel the pulse of Amma’s body here, her cunt throbbing against her hand, hot and alive; she may as well be holding her heart in her hands, Amma handing it over. 

“Please,” Amma says. She keeps holding Camille’s wrist down there, and urges her further in. Camille unfurls her fingers and like touching herself, she slips one inside Amma; her little sister makes a vulnerable moaning noise in the back of her throat. Camille has always been good at doing what people want her to do in bed. 

“I heard this is supposed to make the pain better,” Amma says, throwing her head back and pushing into Amma’s fingers. It’s so easy to push inside her like this, bloody and yielding. One finger isn’t enough to get  _ her  _ off, personally but Amma is sensitive and swollen with her period and it’s easy for Camille to slip her thumb over the soft little nub there. Amma’s body arches, like a bow, breathing hard. “More, ‘Mille,” she says.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she slips a second finger inside Amma, worried she's scraping up her insides with sharp nails, but Amma doesn't complain; maybe she even likes a little pain. Camille presses down hard on her clit,  _ pressure, release, pressure, release,  _ Amma shaking around her, Amma’s pulse in her hand. 

Maybe it’s the heat, breaking her brain a little. Maybe it’s the way the heat of Amma's body feels like all the affection her mother denied her. 

(it’s easy to let Amma take the reins; Camille knows that makes her weak but she’s been feeling weak lately)

“Amma—” Camille starts but Amma shakes her head, her hands tightening around her wrist. It’s beginning to hurt now but Camille is used to pain. “More, more, more,” Amma demands, frantic, humping and riding her hand as Camille scissors her fingers inside her, and then Amma cries out, too loud in their little room, spasming all around her. 

Camille can only stare for the moment, mesmerized, heat drunk, blood thick in her ears. She’s hyper aware of her own blood, and the strong, heavy copper smell of it. Or maybe that’s Amma’s blood. 

“Camille,” Amma gasps, breathless, chest heaving. Her eyes are fully dilated, cheeks flushed red. There’s sweat on her brow and running down her face and down to her collarbone and disappearing under her skin. There’s a question in Amma’s voice that Camille doesn’t want to answer. “Camille, that was so  _ good _ ,” she says. 

Camille pulls her hand away, slowly, gently, slipping out of her little sister’s cunt. She shakes her head in response. She needs a drink. 

“Do you want me to?” Amma asks the question out loud, reaching for Camille’s legs. Camille is too dazed to stop her when she slip her hand in her underwear, fingers against her bloody pubic hair

Amma and Camille both gasp, sharing the same air. For a moment, Camille’s pussy throbs, fluttering against Camille’s fingers and Amma grins like a shark.

A flash of desire hits her like a lightning strike. Then, on top of it, a revulsion so heavy, she gags in her throat, tasting bile. She thinks of Ann Nash and Natelie Keene’s teeth, their wide gaping maws, and Amma’s teeth.. 

Camille rips Amma’s hand away from her, steps back, bumping into the table, nearly knocking it over in her haste. 

“Camille,” Amma says, low and soft and thick with desire that doesn’t make sense because  _ it’s not supposed to be this way.  _

Camille is supposed to be a good sister. They were supposed to be getting better, recovering. Her journalist editorials are filled with fictional stories of sisters with a serial killer mother, none of it true anymore.

She runs straight for the bathroom, not saying anything to Amma, leaving her behind her. She leaves bloody hand prints on the bathroom door as she opens it, and blood smears on the sink as she runs it. She's not sure the stain will come out of the white porcelain. 

Camille takes a deep breath and begins to scrub and scrub but Amma’s blood remains, in the crevices of her knuckles, between her fingers, her nails stained red, water pink and soapy. 

The blood doesn’t come off. 


End file.
